“It does sound somewhat queer, a Syrian girl fainting in the Dominie’s house,” said Wilbur.  “She could not have found a house where her sex, of any nationality, are in less repute.”

“Then you don’t think that Alice Mendon—?” There was a faint note of jealousy in Margaret’s voice, although she herself had not the slightest interest in Dominie von Rosen or any man, except her husband; and in him only because he was her husband.  As the husband of her wonderful self, he acquired a certain claim to respect, even affection, such as she had to bestow.

“I don’t think Alice Mendon would take up with the Dominie, if he would with her,” responded Wilbur Edes hastily.  Margaret did not understand his way of speaking, but just then she looked at herself in an opposite mirror, and pulled down one side of her blond pompadour a bit, which softened her face, and added to its allurement.  The truth was Wilbur Edes, before he met Margaret, had proposed to Alice Mendon.  Alice had never told, and he had not, consequently Margaret did not know.  Had she known it would have made no difference, since she could not imagine any man preferring Alice to herself.  All her jealousy was based upon the facts of her superior height, and ability to carry herself well, where she knew herself under many circumstances about as graceful as an Angora cat walking upon her hind legs.  She was absolutely sure of her husband.  The episode with Alice had occurred before he had ever even seen Herself.  She smiled radiantly upon him as she arose.  She was conscious of no affection for her husband, but she was conscious of a desire to show appreciation, and to display radiance for his delectation.

“It is charming of you to think of getting Lydia Greenway to read, you dear old man,” said she.  Wilbur beamed.

“Well, of course, I can not be sure, that is not absolutely sure, but if it is to be done, I will manage it,” said he.

It was at this very time, for radically different notes sound at the same time in the harmony or discord of life, that Von Rosen’s housekeeper, Jane Riggs, stood before him with that crackling white apron swept over her face.

“What is it?” asked Von Rosen, and he realised that his lips were stiff, and his voice sounded strange.

A strange harsh sob came from behind the apron.  “She was all bent to one side with that heavy suit case, as heavy as lead, for I hefted it,” said Jane Riggs, “and she couldn’t have been more than fifteen.  Them outlandish girls get married awful young.”

“What is it?”

“And there was poor Jack lickin’ her hands, and him a dog everybody is so scared of, and she a sinkin’ down in a heap on my kitchen floor.”

“What is it?”

“She has passed away,” answered Jane Riggs, “and—­the baby is a boy, and no bigger than the cat, not near as big as the cat when I come to look at him, and I put some of my old flannels and my shimmy on him, and Doctor Sturtevant has got him in my darning basket, all lined with newspapers, the New York Sun, and the Times and hot water bottles, and it’s all happened in the best chamber, and I call it pretty goings on.”